“Something that I’m really proud of is that bamboo right there,” says Zamyla M. Chan ’14, nodding her head to the grass shoot potted beside her laptop. “I’ve been taking care of it since sophomore year. It started off really short and it’s grown a lot.”
Every other Friday night, Roland Yang ’14 hosts what he calls “a post-dinner, not a pre-game.” He gathers his close friends, serving them wine and freshly-baked cake in a room decorated with flags: Nigerian, French, Chinese, Indian, Kuwaiti, and rainbow.
“Clinical psychology and poetry are very different axes to the same ambiguous and complex human experience,” Tadmor says.
In that rare moment of calm I can’t help but wonder what new idea has seized control of him, and what form it will take when he decides to share it.
The year was 2012 and, as Election Day nestled into nighttime, ImeIme A. Umana ’14, her friends, and dozens of other students flocked to the Institute of Politics’ John F. Kennedy, Jr. Forum.
Three years later, it’s hard to recognize those freshmen who'd never played rugby in the women who played on a National Championship-winning squad in 2011, guided their team to varsity status over the past two years, and recently won their first Ivy League Championship.
At first, Rainer A. Crosett ’14 sounds like he has familiar story, as far as student musicians go. He started playing piano at age five, picked up the cello (his instrument of choice) at nine, but waited until he was 13 to seriously apply himself. Since then, he’s excelled at the latter instrument.
Growing up in Boulder, Colorado, Ben S. Raderstorf ’14 was naturally a big mountaineer, he says, and trips with what he calls an eccentric family were as commonplace as the outdoors. But Raderstorf didn’t anticipate that his love of travel and the outdoors would play as large of a role on campus in Cambridge too.
“This is so awkward. Like what? I love cats? What do you want me to tell you?” Erin D. Drake lounges outside Quincy Grille, her legs tucked up into the space next to her on her bench.
When Cassandra E. Euphrat Weston attended her first poetry slam in ninth grade, she loved it—but believed she’d never perform herself.
From far away, the picture may appear like any other painting: colorful, bright, and, like all other images, flat. But stepping closer, strange things begin to happen.